Monday morning in the Verne kitchen felt heavier than usual. The Sunday peace had evaporated, replaced by the sharp, metallic smell of a new school week.
I was already at the table, humming a tuneless song as I organized my silt samples for the day's archival work. In my right hand, I held the Old Wooden Spoon—the one with the deep grain and the slight scorch mark. I've always admired its structural integrity; it's survived years of Arin's "enthusiastic" porridge stirring.
"Arin, catch!" I chirped, tossing the spoon across the kitchen without looking. I like to keep the boy's reflexes sharp—good for avoiding falling masonry, after all.
Arin's hand was a blur. For a split second, he looked like a statue of a god catching a lightning bolt. But then, in a display of that classic Verne coordination I've come to expect, he fumbled it. The spoon hit his palm, bounced off his chest, and clattered onto the floor.
"Still a bit shaky in the mornings, I see!" I chuckled, turning a page in my ledger. "That's my boy. Consistency is key!"
Arin picked it up, his face flushed. He gripped the wooden handle with a white-knuckled intensity. I noticed the wood groan—just a tiny, stressed creak—before he loosened his grip.
"I was just... checking the weight, Father," Arin muttered.
"The spoon is for the porridge, Arin," Avaris said from the stove. She didn't turn around, but the way she held her spatula was... different. It wasn't a kitchen tool; it was a weapon held at "Parry High."
I forget sometimes that my wife has the most efficient movements I've ever seen. Every step she takes in the kitchen is a masterclass in economy. She doesn't just "walk" to the pantry; she maneuvers.
"Don't test the wood today, Arin," Avaris added, her voice dropping to that low, General-commanding-the-lines tone. "Save your strength for the 'Physical Aptitude' tests. You'll need it to stay... steady."
I adjusted my spectacles. "Exactly! Principal Albrecht sent a note late last night. He wants to see the 'natural grace' of the students. He's likely looking for those who don't have it so he can put them on the Desk Work track."
Avaris turned then. Her eyes were like flint. "And the Northern students? Cyrus and Mira? Will they be tested too?"
"Oh, especially them!" I said. "Albrecht mentioned they had a 'Supplementary Weekend.' Lucky children, getting extra study time while we were just playing with sand in the basement!"
Avaris's grip on the spatula tightened until her knuckles turned white. She knew. She knew "Supplementary Weekend" at a military-adjacent school meant sensory deprivation, interrogation, and endurance tests. She looked at our children, and for a second, the General peeked out from behind the apron.
"We should go, Father," Lysa said, standing up. "We don't want to be early. Being early draws attention."
"Spoken like a true scholar!" I beamed. "Off you go. And Arin—leave the spoon. You can't use it as a stabilizer in the sparring ring!"
Arin dropped the spoon. It hit the table and spun once.
The Academy Gates
I walked them to the gates, feeling a surge of fatherly pride. But as we approached, I saw Cyrus and Mira.
Cyrus looked like he had been through a centrifuge. His glasses were skewed, and he was tapping his thigh in a frantic rhythm. Mira was standing next to him, but she was so pale she looked like a ghost of herself.
"Cyrus! Mira!" I called out. "I hope you enjoyed your 'Supplementary' study! Perhaps later we can discuss vellum transparency!"
Arin stepped in front of me, shielding them. "They're tired, Father. Very heavy books."
"Ah, the weight of knowledge!" I sighed. "Well, remember my lecture on Percolation! If you fall on those sparring mats, fall like water—slowly, and without a splash!"
I patted Arin on the back and headed toward the Town Records, humming my tune. I felt great. My wife was home making jam, my kids were at a safe school, and I had a date with some 200-year-old tax ledgers.
What I didn't see was Avaris watching from the end of the street, her eyes fixed on the Grey Cloaked Courier at the gate. She wasn't holding a spatula anymore. Her hands were empty, curled into loose fists, and she was standing in a "Low-Stance" shadow.
The General was watching her troops enter the meat-grinder.
I arrived at the Town Records Office, still whistling. The smell of old paper is the only thing that can rival Avaris's cooking in my heart. I settled into my usual corner, a beautiful mahogany desk that has seen more ink than a squid.
"Good morning, Master Verne," the archivist whispered. "Back for the tax ledgers?"
"Actually, Arthur, I'm looking for something specific today," I said, adjusting my spectacles. "I'm curious about the Academy's recent renovations. Principal Albrecht mentioned they were reinforcing the floors, and I wanted to see if they used the proper density of granite I recommended."
Arthur pulled a thin, blue folder from the 'Current Works' pile. "Here you go. It's the Structural Modification Permit filed two weeks ago."
I opened the folder, expecting to see records of mortar and stone. Instead, my eyes hit a diagram that made my scholarly heart skip a beat.
"This... this isn't granite reinforcement," I whispered, leaning closer.
The blueprint showed the "Sparring Mat" in the Academy's West Wing. But beneath the decorative top layer, there was a complex network of Force-Displacement Sensors. It was a grid designed to measure the exact amount of pressure a human foot exerts when moving.
I frowned. "Arthur, why would a remedial school need to know the Newton-output of a student's footfall? This looks like... well, it looks like a scale for weighing giants."
"I thought it was for 'Posture Correction,' Master Verne," Arthur said with a shrug. "Albrecht told the council it was to help the clumsy students find their balance."
I stared at the lines on the paper. I thought about Arin. I thought about the Wooden Spoon. I thought about how Arin had been "faking" his wobbles all morning.
If Arin stepped on those mats and "tripped," the sensors would know if he was actually falling or if he was intentionally suppressing a massive amount of force. A real fall has a specific "scatter" pattern. A suppressed move looks like a concentrated spike of energy masquerading as a limp.
"This is a trap," I muttered, the realization hitting me like a bucket of cold silt. "He isn't trying to help them. He's trying to catch them 'blinking'."
I looked at the clock on the wall. First period was already ten minutes in. My children were, at this very moment, walking onto a floor that was designed to read their souls through their soles.
And then I saw the second permit in the folder. It was an authorization for "Live-Load Obstacle Deployment." In a normal school, that means a target dummy. In a military context, it means an active opponent.
I stood up so fast my chair screeched against the floor.
"Arthur, I have to go," I said, grabbing my satchel and forgetting my favorite fountain pen. "I forgot... I forgot to tell Arin not to wear his heavy boots today. Yes. The boots. Very important for... percolation!"
I ran out of the office, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I rounded the corner, I saw her—Avaris. She hadn't moved from the end of the street. She was still in that shadow, still in that low stance, staring at the Academy gates like she could see through the stone walls.
She knew. The General had already sensed the trap.